Wagering History
by Annie Sewell-Jennings
Summary: A game of spades provides high stakes and reveals everything. Buffy/Spike
1. Chapter One

TITLE: "Wagering History (1/4)"  
BY: Annie Sewell-Jennings  
E-MAIL: auralissa@aol.com  
SUMMARY: A game of spades provides high stakes and reveals   
everything. Buffy/Spike  
RATING: PG-13  
SPOILERS: Post-"Intervention"  
DISTRIBUTION: My site,   
http://geocities.com/anniesjennings/index.html, and wherever else   
it is wanted, provided that permission is requested prior to   
archival  
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Buffy, Willow, Xander and Spike are   
the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I don't   
own them; I just make them have lots of sex. But I haven't heard   
any complaints yet, so... ;-)  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This piece is dedicated to the players of our own   
never-ending game of Spades: Barbara and Megan. I will always   
bring that bitch home. g Also, thanks to my beta-reading pal,   
Heather. :)  
  
*****  
  
Wagering History  
  
*****  
  
Spades.  
  
Honestly, I hadn't played the game since I was sixteen and bored   
in study hall, twirling my hair around my finger and tiredly   
looking at my hand, snapping gum and wishing that I was someone   
else. But I had joined in, carelessly tossing cards into the   
pile, collecting books, doing an average job.  
  
Maybe it seemed more glamorous and interesting to play cards   
underneath the neon lights and haze of smoke in the Bronze. Like   
I was someone elite, someone too good to dance. But when Xander   
pulled out the deck of cards and Willow said that she knew how to   
play Spades, the idea seemed so appealing that I was thrilled.  
  
"We need a fourth, though," Willow said, momentarily downcast,   
and I shrugged, taking a sip of my room temperature beer. Ew.   
Totally gross. I hate how I can never down a whole drink while   
it's still cold, so that I'll always have to suffer through piss-  
warm beer. Or not get drunk. The latter's probably the better   
option.  
  
"We could always play wild," I suggested. "Just deal the fourth   
hand but then not play the cards. Then you don't know what's   
highest." I flashed a winning grin, moved my hands around a   
little bit. Playing cute sometimes gets me my way, but not that   
night.  
  
Xander made a disinterested face, shuffling the deck between his   
hands. "Nah," he said. "It's more fun if you have a fourth.   
Besides, we get to have teams then, and by default, spiffy team   
names. Like the Gladiators." He gave us his own version of a   
winning smile. So not as cute as mine.  
  
I snorted. "Thanks, Russell," I said dryly, and I sighed,   
cradling my chin in my hands. Now, I have come to terms with the   
fact that there is nothing to do in this town, nothing to escape   
from trouble and boredom, but I thought that a game of cards   
might have done it. To be wrapped up in strategy and meaningless   
rectangles of tagboard. It didn't sound bad.  
  
It was interesting to watch Xander shuffle a deck of cards,   
though. His adventure in the strip club two summers ago had   
apparently taught him some new tricks, and his fingers rapidly   
shuffled the deck, cutting it expertly and with an artistic   
flourish, like he was a blackjack dealer in Vegas putting on a   
show. "We could always play poker," he suggested, and Willow   
quickly protested.  
  
"Oh, no," she said forcefully. "I had a very, very bad experience   
with poker when I was in sixth grade. Lunch money lost, dignity   
stolen..." The redhead shook her head emphatically. "It's a   
sordid tale of innocence lost through gambling and mild nudity."  
  
Xander perked up at that. "Sordid nudity?" he asked eagerly, and   
I just rolled my eyes. Men are always oh-so capable of   
rearranging sentences to their benefit. But on Xander, it was   
kind of cute. The little guy's just so damn horny. Sometimes, I   
wonder how Anya satiates that appetite for sex, but then I   
remember that Anya's pretty much a nympho herself. Riding   
horse... Ew.   
  
God, it was easy to retreat into this banter, this old rapport   
that we have together. It was reinvigorating to be there,   
observing as Willow talked with her hands and Xander was clever.   
I could ignore the last couple of months, the mistakes that I   
made, and lose myself in the stability of their conversation.  
  
Maybe that was why I wanted to play cards so damn bad. I wanted a   
distraction, something to keep my mind off of everything that was   
different and strange at home. I could forget that the house was   
empty except for one resentful, sullen-faced sister and a   
frazzled Slayer. No worries, no cares. Just this banter, this   
healthy little chat between old friends. Just this wonderful   
conversation.  
  
Which was now dead, because not a one of us could think of a   
single damned thing to say.  
  
"I know how to play gin," I suggested eagerly. "Or hearts." Then   
I sighed, leaning down on my hand. "Dammit, I had my heart set on   
spades."  
  
Slumping into her hands and giving a miffed little puff, Willow   
seemed to be an exasperated pixie. "Me too," she grumbled, and   
then Xander snorted, looking past us as he shuffled cards between   
his hands.  
  
"Well, if we want a more visual and pathetic form of   
entertainment, we do have good old Spike drinking himself sick at   
the bar," Xander pointed out.  
  
Spike. Oh, Lord.  
  
See, this was the sort of thing that a game of spades was   
supposed to destroy. It was going to erase the memory of his sad   
attempt to have me through electronics. I would never have to   
remember the sight of his awful robot. Or his battered, bruised   
body draped across the lid of a sarcophogus... Or the memory of   
his swollen mouth brushing against mine...  
  
Oh, Lord.  
  
I was terrified to turn around and look at him, but being a   
glutton for punishment, I did take a glance. Upon first glance, I   
wished that I hadn't. The swelling had gone down a little bit,   
but his face was still purple and black, and his mouth was still   
puffy and tender-looking, and was currently nursing a cigarette.   
There were cuts all across his cheek, and I didn't want to know   
how they had gotten there. His hand shook as he drank his beer,   
and he looked stiff and sore. He must have been hurting - he   
didn't even do his hair. It just kind of tumbled. I felt bad for   
him.  
  
Willow sucked in her breath when she saw him, and I had forgotten   
that she hadn't seen how badly he'd taken it from Glory. "Man, he   
looks awful," she whispered to me, and I nodded my head.  
  
"Yeah, he took one for the team," I muttered. Did they know that   
I'd kissed him? Was it written across my face? I felt like I had   
a big scarlet "K" written across my chest. Well, maybe just   
across my cheeks. They felt pretty red.  
  
Xander shook his head, shuffling the cards between his hands.   
"Yeah, it's hard not to feel kind of bad for him," he admitted.   
"And that's saying a lot, because I really, really hate Spike.   
But..."  
  
His voice trailed, and we were all quiet for a minute, looking at   
him while he drank his beer with a shaking hand. We didn't quite   
know what to think of him after what he had done. He had been   
tortured, had been brutalized, and had kept the secret. In   
essence, Spike saved Dawn's life, and had done it selflessly and   
had suffered for it.  
  
And I had kissed him.  
  
Slowly, I looked at Willow. "You know, maybe we should do   
something for him," I suggested. "He looks kind of lonely..."  
  
"Buff, you've got to be kidding me," he said. "Spike? Sitting in   
front of us? Existing near us? Touching my cards? Wrong. No."  
  
"Oh, come on, Xander," Willow said. "Buffy's right. He's been   
through a lot lately."  
  
I turned to my friends and arched my eyebrow at them. "Look, I   
want to play spades," I said simply. "It's a damn card game. He   
says one thing even remotely weird, and he'll go. And we all know   
how Spike is when it comes to saying weird shit, so maybe one   
hand at best. All right?"  
  
Before Xander could object, I turned around and called out. "Hey,   
Spike!"  
  
He turned around gingerly, wincing, and I kind of gave him a   
half-smile that said, "Hey, don't hate you so much anymore." He   
tugged his bruised mouth into a return smile, and I felt bad at   
the sight of him. He made me feel almost... Guilty. Which was, of   
course, completely ridiculous, since he'd done enough in this   
past week (Exhibit A: Sexbot) to make me want to stake him.  
  
Of course, then he'd done enough to make me want to kiss him,   
so...  
  
I got up from the table and walked to the bar, leaning on the   
tabletop and tilting my head at him. Even through the bruises and   
cuts, he smiled at me, an almost shy smile, like the kind that I   
used to get when talking to the quarterback of the football team   
in high school that I always had a secret crush on. "Hey, Buffy,"   
he said, and I found myself a little short of breath when I   
looked at his mouth. I could still taste the kiss.  
  
"How are you feeling?" I asked. Stupid me to be concerned. Stupid   
me to have kissed him.  
  
"Like I got hit with a Mack truck," he said. "Well, suppose   
that's appropriate, since Glory's ass is the size of an eighteen-  
wheeler."  
  
Was it wrong to snicker at that? No, it was funny, so I laughed a   
little. Spike smiled at me, tilting his head like we were   
enjoying some sort of warped camaraderie. I think that maybe we   
were. "First time you ever laughed at my jokes," he said.  
  
I arched my eyebrow at him. "There's a first time for everything,   
Spike," I said. "Like this is the first time I've invited you to   
come sit with us. Wanna play spades?"  
  
Now it was his turn for his eyebrow to arch, and I was pained by   
how bruised and swollen his left eye still was. He really got the   
brunt of it on the left side of his face - she must be right-  
handed. "You sure you want your ass whipped that badly?" he said,   
and I rolled my eyes, grabbing his hand and ignoring how well our   
fingers fit together as I dragged him back to the table.  
  
God bless Willow for being so damn cheerful and eager-to-please.   
Sometimes, it's a grating quality, but on that night, I was   
grateful for it. She gave Spike a bright smile and waved a little   
at him. "Hey, Spike!" she said. "You look... Um..."  
  
"Pathetic?" Xander supplied, and Spike rolled his eyes, taking   
his seat across from me. Great. Now I would have to stare at his   
bruised face all night long, thinking about what he'd done for us   
and how I couldn't be a bitch to him anymore. And I'd have to   
look at his mouth and remember what it was like to touch it with   
my own. Maybe I could put a paper bag over his face...  
  
"So, how are you playing this?" Spike asked, and Xander sighed,   
rolling his eyes a little as he dealt out the cards.  
  
"We don't bid on the first round so that we can work up some   
books to bid," he said. "Bags are counted, and ten bags costs you   
a hundred points. No blind bidding unless you're behind a hundred   
points, no nil, two of clubs is high joker, two of hearts is low   
joker, then two of diamonds, spades, and then down from ace.   
First team to five hundred points or Spike's really offensive   
comment ends the game." Damn. That was pretty impressive.  
  
I tilted my head at Spike, wrinkling my nose at him in a cute   
little fashion. "Yeah," I said. "One nasty word or rude little   
remark and you're out of the game and back to the fun of solo   
drinking. So keep up this fabulous new trend and behave   
yourself."  
  
Spike just tightened his smile and picked up his cards. "So who's   
on my team?" he asked.  
  
"Oh, Xander and I are always a team," Willow quickly said, and I   
rolled my eyes.  
  
"Fine," I sighed. "Spike, it's me and you. And if you make me   
lose, then your ass is grass, buddy." I picked up a paper napkin   
and a pen, preparing to take score.  
  
Willow smiled broadly all of a sudden with that infectious little   
grin that could light up a room. I've seen her give that smile to   
Tara, and I've seen Tara turn about fifty shades of red from bad   
lusty feelings. I have to admit - it's a pretty cute smile. "Ooo,   
we need team names!" she said excitedly. "Xander and I are the   
Sharks. We've always been the Sharks."  
  
Cigarette once again clinging to his lower lip, Spike leaned   
across the table and tapped the paper napkin. "Yeah, and our team   
name is going to be 'People That Realize Team Names are   
Annoying'," he drawled, and Xander sighed.  
  
"Again, irritating comment that everyone else seems to be   
ignoring," he said, and I rolled my eyes.  
  
"We'll keep a separate score for every nasty remark that Spike   
makes," I said. "When it gets to five, we'll just stake him."   
Cheerfully, I smiled across the table at him, and he gave me his   
own fake smile back.  
  
Xander perked at that. "Ooo, good call, Buff," he said. "Upping   
the ante a little."  
  
Spike shifted a little in his seat, exhaling smoke right in my   
face. He's so damned charming. "Speaking of upping the ante, are   
we betting money on this?" he asked. "Cause you know, I could use   
the cash and all."  
  
Xander gave him a look like he had just grown antennae and   
sprouted a tail. The mental picture made me stifle a giggle. "Uh,   
that would be a hell no," he said.  
  
Disappointed, Spike sat back in his chair. Willow then smiled.   
"Well, here's an idea," she said. "How about whoever loses the   
round has to reveal some deep dark secret? Something really good.   
And whoever wins the game gets to tell someone outside of the   
game someone else's secret."  
  
Xander threw back his head and closed his eyes. "Oh, please, God,   
tell me that there's something that involves Spike, liquor, and a   
karaoke bar," he said aloud, and Spike smiled tightly at him.  
  
"Yes, very funny," he said. "Actually, I like Bewitched's idea.   
Makes things a little more... Interesting."  
  
"Fine by me," I said. "The skeletons in my closet could deal with   
being aired out." With that, Willow gave me a worried expression.   
"Oh, I don't mean that literally."  
  
Relieved, Willow sat back. "Sorry, but in Sunnydale, you have to   
wonder."  
  
Rearranging his cards in some weird-ass order, Spike took another   
drag from his cigarette and shrugged. "Actually, I have a   
skeleton in my crypt," he said casually. "Of course, it's all   
gnarled up and not so attractive, but it gives it that kind of   
historic air." God, he has the weirdest conception of   
conversation. Only Spike would discuss the rotted corpse in his   
house like it was a new lamp that he picked up at Pier One. Like   
it was a Martha Stewart cadaver or something.  
  
Clearing his throat to change the subject, Xander looked at   
Spike. "Okay, so you're right of the dealer, so throw down your   
lowest club."  
  
Spike arched his eyebrow at Xander. "Hey, I said that I knew how   
to play the damn game," he said a little haughtily before tossing   
out a three of clubs. Willow furrowed her brow at her hand,   
frowning at the cards between her fingers before putting down a   
six of clubs. I had a shitty hand. A terrible hand, actually. It   
sucked.  
  
"My hand sucks ass," I complained as I carelessly threw a king of   
clubs onto the table. Spike smirked at me, like that meant he won   
something, collecting the book and arching his eyebrow at me.  
  
"Well, at least you brought us a book, luv," he said, stacking   
the cards in his hand and accidentally ashing onto the tip of a   
card. Great, now I was going to get cigarette ash on my   
fingertips when I picked up the cards. And I had just had them   
manicured. Really cute, too. Who says that white girls can't wear   
nail tips?  
  
Sighing in exasperation, I threw a three of hearts onto the table   
and waited to lose.  
  
It was going to be the longest fucking game of spades in history.  
  
*****  
  
(end part one)  
  
*****  
  
  



	2. Chapter Two

TITLE: "Wagering History (2/4)"  
BY: Annie Sewell-Jennings  
E-MAIL: auralissa@aol.com  
SUMMARY: A game of spades provides high stakes and reveals   
everything. Buffy/Spike  
RATING: PG-13  
SPOILERS: Post-"Intervention"  
DISTRIBUTION: My site,   
http://geocities.com/anniesjennings/index.html, and wherever else   
it is wanted, provided that permission is requested prior to   
archival  
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Buffy, Willow, Xander and Spike are   
the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I don't   
own them; I just make them have lots of sex. But I haven't heard   
any complaints yet, so... ;-)  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This piece is dedicated to the players of our own   
never-ending game of Spades: Barbara and Megan. I will always   
bring that bitch home. g Also, thanks to my beta-reading pal,   
Heather. :)  
  
*****  
  
You know that old expression, "I would love to be a fly on *that*   
wall?" It took me the longest time to figure it out. I've never   
been good with old wives' sayings and metaphors. Believe me,   
interpreting poetry in my English 101 class was absolute hell. I   
think it was my mother who told me what it meant eventually, and   
I've never forgotten it. There must be, like, ten thousand flies   
out there trading stories about what they've heard on my walls.   
But this had to be one of the best walls of all.  
  
Spike was a damn good spades player. He had the strategy all   
worked out, never overbidding, instinctively putting down the   
right cards. And I have to admit, I was pretty good at it, too.   
Together, we were completely kicking ass, and Willow and Xander   
didn't look too happy about it. Too bad for them, because I was   
thrilled about it. How could I not be?  
  
The score thus far:  
  
"The Sharks": 210 points, 6 bags  
"The Mean People Who Do Not Get the Fun of Team Names": 450   
points, 3 bags  
"Rude Remarks Made By Spike": 19  
  
I was starting to keep my own score. Spike had smoked thirteen   
cigarettes and drunk two beers. I had downed three beers and had   
considered bumming two cigarettes. Willow had told two stories   
that involved her sixth grade sense of style (involving, oh yes,   
a mullet). Xander had shared one embarrassing sexual escapade   
with Anya, and Spike had been loudly revolted.   
  
Actually, Spike had been pretty tolerable the whole evening, and   
we'd gotten some pretty juicy stuff out of him. My personal   
favorite had to be the time when he wrecked Giles's car. He had   
never told us why the Gilesmobile was trashed, but hearing that   
Spike didn't know how to drive stick really amused me. And it was   
really strange to hear everyone joshing around and forgetting   
history while we sort of, well, got along.  
  
A high-pitched giggle dragged me back into reality, and Willow   
covered her mouth with her hand as she tipped back her head and   
laughed. "Oh my God, you *so* didn't have sex with Anya in   
Giles's bathroom," she howled, and Xander turned thirty shades of   
red, running his hand through his hair.  
  
"Well, he was all out of town and it was my parents' anniversary,   
which meant a marathon of fighting," he muttered, and Spike was   
snickering while lighting what had to be his fourteenth   
cigarette. "What else were we supposed to do?"  
  
I leaned in, arching my eyebrows at him, trying to hold back my   
own laughter. "Dude, you're supposed to, like, go in the car or   
something," I said, feeling a little lightheaded. Oops, my beer   
buzz must have wandered into drunk and was quickly approaching   
wasted. "Xand, honestly - Giles's bathroom? The hell?"  
  
Spike took another swig of his Sam Addams and snorted. "I have to   
hand that one to you, boy," he said, a wicked grin on his face.   
That same wicked grin he liked to flash at me. It's the one where   
he looks like a contented feline, with the sly arrogance and the   
blatant sexuality. That stupid smile always makes me shift in my   
seat. "The place looks like a bleeding bordello. London-style   
though, so it's stodgy."  
  
I narrowed my eyes at him, watching him smoke his cigarette. "I   
thought that you were *from* London," I said. Spike was anything   
*but* stodgy. Raunchy, brash, crude, loud - these were much   
better adjectives for a creature like Spike.  
  
Spike nodded and picked up the deck of cards, the cigarette now   
hanging yet again from his lower lip. There is no way to express   
how much I hate when he does that. It makes his mouth look too   
nice, too pretty, and those are *so* not good when associated   
with Spike. He doesn't need to be vulnerable or appealing. He   
needs to be disgusting. Maybe he could belch. Maybe that would   
help. Maybe that would help me forget what his too nice, too   
pretty, too swollen mouth tasted like.   
  
"I am from London," he said. "But I haven't lost in a while, so   
I'm not going any further." WIth that, he started to shuffle the   
deck.  
  
Wow.  
  
His hands were... So fast. There was nothing but a flurry of   
white skin and black nail polish as Spike shuffled the cards,   
flying back and forth, never missing a step. How did his hands   
get so fast? I had never seen anything like it before. The speed,   
the precision, the careless grace. It was almost beautiful to   
watch, and I was mesmerized, eyes glazed over and watching only   
his fingers.  
  
Nimbly, he cut the cards and dealt them, and I realized that   
Spike actually had very nice hands for a guy. Riley had very   
large hands to go along with his very large body, and they   
sometimes suffocated me. I used to lay awake in bed after we made   
love, thinking of how he buried me when he made love to me. Spike   
couldn't do that to me. He was too slender, and his fingers were   
very long and elegant. Nail polish was a good look for him. Most   
guys couldn't pull it off, but on him, it just made... Sense.  
  
Okay, so maybe I was more drunk than I thought I was.  
  
A little dry-mouthed and a lot flustered, I picked up my cards   
and lit up like a Christmas tree. Both jokers, three aces, one of   
which being the ace of spades, two kings, and the face cards in   
spades. "Ooo, I have a *great* hand," I said, and Spike raised   
his eyebrows over his cards.  
  
"Do you really?" he asked, a sour twist to his mouth. "Because   
mine is a steaming pile of shit."  
  
Dainty little Willow wrinkled her nose in distaste and amusement,   
and Xander quirked his mouth. "Always so colorful," he said   
wryly. "Unlike my hand. It's boring. No personality to it   
whatsoever."  
  
"Like Riley?" Spike asked snidely, and I glowered at him with a   
cold look on my face. That was uncalled for, and I could feel   
Willow and Xander tense beside me.  
  
"Not kosher, Spike," I said forcefully, and Spike actually looked   
guilty and a little shame-faced. Like he'd lost points or   
something. But I wasn't keeping score. Really, I wasn't. So I   
didn't know that Spike had smoked thirteen cigarettes and was   
working on his fourteenth, had now made twenty nasty remarks, and   
had ten really extraordinary fingers.  
  
Nope. I wasn't keeping score at all.  
  
We ended up betting six books, since Spike was absolutely   
pessimistic about his hand. Willow and Xander threw in seven, and   
I really got worried. I had shared only three secrets so far, all   
of them fairly pedestrian, but there was something really strange   
starting. For starters, I was pretty sure that I was drunk   
bordering on plastered, and when I'm drunk, pretty much   
everything comes out. It's why I rarely drink. As if that wasn't   
bad enough, I was also starting to think that Spike was somewhat   
interesting. Again, bad. Very bad.  
  
The hand played itself out badly. I did a good job, don't get me   
wrong, but Spike's hand was... Well, it was awful. Like, it   
sucked big time. He had almost all the hearts in the deck, and so   
it was pretty much up to me to win. But I could only do so much   
when Willow was kicking ass left and right, and when it was all   
over, we had five books and they had eight.  
  
I never knew that Willow could be such a bitchy winner. I guess   
it's the educational competitive drive in her, but she was   
bobbing her head left and right as she ticked off the score. "Uh-  
oh, looks like we get more Spike and Buffy theatre," she sang in   
a cheery little tone.  
  
Spike leaned in close, so close that I could smell the cigarettes   
on his breath. "If I strangle her, will I get kicked out of the   
game?" he asked, and I saw a smile blossoming on his mouth. The   
spark in his eye. Wow, I never realized that Spike had blue eyes   
before. Blue like rivers. And the smile...  
  
I couldn't help it; his grin was infectious. I leaned in and   
smiled back at him, shaking my head and never letting my eyes   
leave his. I don't think I could have looked away if I tried, and   
so I didn't even bother. "After that display, strangling her   
would be welcomed," I said, and there was a moment of silence   
there, with the two of us smiling at each other like big dumb   
idiots. I think I might have glowed at him.  
  
Uncomfortably, Willow cleared her throat and looked pointedly at   
me, and for some strange reason, that irritated me. She's not my   
mother. She doesn't have any control over me, and sometimes, she   
thinks that she is the high moral authority on everything. When   
she looks at me with that highbrow attitude and that little   
disapproving look on her face, it makes me feel about ten inches   
tall and brings out the rebel in me.  
  
It brought out the rebel in me until I realized that she was   
right. I *was* smiling a little too brightly. What if the smile   
said too much? What if it let them know what I had been enjoying   
Spike's company a little too much lately, that I had let my mouth   
slide across his and that I wanted to do it again?  
  
For the benefit of Willow and Xander, I let the smile fade a   
little bit, but if Spike looked hard enough, he could have found   
it still lingering on my lips. I didn't erase it completely, and   
that was probably not a smart thing to do. I would probably   
regret that later. But not at the moment. In that instant, all   
that I wanted to do was smile at him and feel a little hot under   
the collar.  
  
"So, Buff, reveal a deep, dark secret to us," Xander said, and I   
swallowed a little. Oh, God. A secret to tell. I had so many of   
them, ranging from the ridiculous to the heartbreaking. But there   
was a look on Spike's face, a sort of invitation to be completely   
open, and for some reason, I trusted him. What a stupid thing to   
do, I know, but I just did. I just wanted to confess.  
  
"I never loved Riley," I said in a hushed voice, and everyone   
stared. It was late; there were not many people in the Bronze and   
an old Grant Lee Buffalo album was playing throughout the club. I   
could be quiet and still be honest. Nervously, I shrugged my   
shoulder a little and gave a soft half-smile. "No, I did love   
him, but I wasn't in love with him. I cared about him. Part of me   
still does, but there was no... Passion. No spark, you know?"  
  
Xander had turned away from me, and I knew that it hurt to hear   
that. He had liked Riley, had suffered from his absence, and I   
think it was the testosterone factor. Riley was someone that he   
admired, that he looked up to as a role model, and I think that a   
part of him still blames me for his addiction to vampires and for   
driving him away from Sunnydale. Like I broke his sacred idol and   
never bothered to fix it.   
  
But Riley never gave me a chance.  
  
Uncomfortably, I continued. "He's a good man, don't get me wrong.   
And he was good to me, but he wasn't what I needed. Wasn't what I   
wanted. I don't know what I want, really. And when we were in bed   
together..." Spike blanched a little at that, and it made me feel   
even more weird. It was strange to see Spike so openly jealous   
over me. We hated each other. Now... I don't know. I just don't.   
I swallowed again and went on. "When we were in bed together, I   
felt like he was trying to suffocate me. Like he wanted to drown   
out what I was so that I could be his. It made me afraid. And,   
well, that's it. That's my secret."  
  
I wanted a cigarette. One of his cigarettes. The kind that was   
hanging from his lower lip. Instead, I just took a long gulp of   
my beer, and it was gone. I didn't need anymore anyway. The   
others just looked away, except for Spike, who was staring right   
at me, like I said something that made him think.  
  
"My turn," he said in a quiet, honeyed voice. He really did have   
a nice voice when he wasn't using it to be a jackass. "To   
backtrack for those who weren't there for our lovely night of   
buffalo wings and storytelling, before I was a vampire, I was a   
poet."  
  
I'd never seen a spit-take done live and in person, but that's   
just what Xander did. He sprayed his beer all over Willow's   
pretty little pink Abercrombie & Fitch top, and she was too   
shocked to notice. Her jaw was practically on the floor.  
  
"What?" Xander asked incredulously. "I repeat, what? You were a   
poet?"  
  
Spike glared at Xander. "Yes, and I was also a prissy little   
wanker who lived with his mum," he said. "Even got the   
photographic evidence to prove it." With that, he pulled out a   
stained and beaten leather wallet from his stained and beaten   
leather coat, and procured a small yellow tintype from it.   
Eagerly, I snatched it from his fingers. I had been dying to see   
a picture of pre-vamp Spike ever since the night he told me about   
it.  
  
And he was wrong. Well, not about the prissiness. But he wasn't   
nothing. The picture showed a young man with a mop of floppy,   
unmanageable blonde hair and even a little pair of glasses   
perched on his nose. He had a dumb smile on his face, like he   
hated being photographed and was nervous about it. But he   
looked... Well, he looked kind of like Giles. Spike was once   
Giles and Giles was once Spike. That's so damn weird.  
  
Xander took the picture from me and just started laughing   
hysterically. Willow took it and smiled. I could tell that she   
saw what I saw in it. She saw that Spike had once been shy, had   
been doubtful and insecure, and that he was sort of cute. "I   
think you were cute," she said in a timid little voice and passed   
it back to Spike, who seemed oddly reassured by her. Good for   
Willow.  
  
"Thanks," he said, pocketing the wallet and the tintype, and then   
he glared at Xander, who was still laughing like a heyena in the   
corner. "You know, not as funny as you think it is. I don't laugh   
at you and you look as stupid as I did. So shut your gob and quit   
your bloody laughing."  
  
Wheezing through the last fit of laughter, Xander started to calm   
himself down, red in the face. "Oh, God, I hope that we win this   
game," he sighed, "because that would be the best story in the   
world to tell Giles." I had to snicker a little at that, because   
he was right. Giles would howl if he heard that the big bad had   
once been a namby-pampy little poet. With glasses.  
  
Spike flipped Xander the British version of the bird, and Xander   
didn't get it. I didn't bother to explain. "Anyway, that's not   
the rest of the story," he said, and I was intrigued. Another   
hole in Spike's history to fill in. "I was in love with a woman   
back then. Cecily. She was a high-society bird, drop-dead   
beautiful and I was a loser. She told me that I was nothing to   
her, and that night, Dru made me." He was succinct with this,   
like he didn't care if Willow and Xander heard the same version   
that he told me. "But after I was turned, I came back to London   
to have my revenge."  
  
A light sparked in his eye, and I was glad that it did, because   
it reminded of me of what Spike was. He was a killer, and he   
loved being a killer. "Cor, those were some good times," he   
reminisced. "Angel and I were just ruthless, and Dru was so   
thrilled. Darla was mostly bored, but the stupid bint mostly   
wanted to go shopping and be pretentious." I bit down on a   
chuckle at that. "Anyway, I saw her. I saw Cecily, and I wanted   
to kill her. Wanted to shag her. I didn't know what I wanted. She   
had fucked me up good."  
  
He looked only at me. The rest of the world faded away. It was   
just Spike and me, surrounding each other, as he held my eyes and   
looked at me. "I didn't kill her," he murmured. "Couldn't. I let   
her go, and three days later, Angel beheaded her and left her   
head on my doorstep."  
  
I did not know. I never knew. But it left me breathless, left me   
hurt and confused, like the rug had been taken from under my   
feet. I felt like I was falling and would never surface. I didn't   
know what to say to him. He had never killed Cecily, and it had   
been my lover, my sweet Angel, who had done such a cruel thing.   
What did this mean? I didn't know what to think.  
  
And I was lost in his eyes. Hopelessly lost. All I could do was   
swim in the blue around his pupils, drown in them. All that I   
could see was Spike, the vampire who had once hurt me and now   
made me somehow... Sad. It was sad what had happened to him.  
  
"It's three a.m.," Willow said in a hushed voice. "I hate to   
forfeit and all, but it's late and Tara will worry." Quietly, she   
looked at the score sheet. "You guys won, so, um,   
congratulations." She fidgeted with her fingers for a minute, and   
then she did something that really shocked the hell out of me.   
She stood up and ruffled Spike's hair. Like, she actually touched   
him. "See you around, Spike."  
  
Xander yawned and stretched, and then looked at Spike and me   
awkwardly. "So, um, I'd really appreciate it if you didn't tell   
Giles that I had sex with Anya in his bathroom," he said, and I   
just smiled broadly while Spike crossed his fingers over his   
heart.  
  
"Oh, your secret's safe with me," he said with a sneer. Man,   
Giles was going to be super-pissed.  
  
The losing team walked out of the Bronze, and I looked across   
from me at Spike. "So, um, I should get going, too," I said, my   
fingers fidgeting with each other in my lap. "Dawn's at home with   
Giles, and I know that he probably wants to get home, and I have   
to take her to school in the morning and..."  
  
"Do you want to play gin?" he asked, and I sighed.  
  
"Yes."  
  
I was doomed.  
  
*****  
  
(end part two)  
  
*****  
  
  
  
  



	3. Chapter Three

TITLE: "Wagering History (3/4)"  
BY: Annie Sewell-Jennings  
E-MAIL: auralissa@aol.com  
SUMMARY: A game of spades provides high stakes and reveals   
everything. Buffy/Spike  
RATING: PG-13  
SPOILERS: Post-"Intervention"  
DISTRIBUTION: My site,   
http://geocities.com/anniesjennings/index.html, and wherever else   
it is wanted, provided that permission is requested prior to   
archival  
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Buffy, Willow, Xander and Spike are   
the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I don't   
own them; I just make them have lots of sex. But I haven't heard   
any complaints yet, so... ;-)  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This piece is dedicated to the players of our own   
never-ending game of Spades: Barbara and Megan. I will always   
bring that bitch home. g Also, thanks to my beta-reading pal,   
Heather. :)  
  
  
*****  
  
I think that I'm beginning to like the way that he smokes   
cigarettes.  
  
There's something very sensual about watching Spike smoke. Maybe   
it's the contrast of his fingernails against the white paper of   
the cigarette. Or is it the way that the filter looks between his   
lips? Part of it is the casual way that he does it, because he   
knows that he's addicted and does not care and because these will   
not kill him. And the smoke itself halos his face, softens his   
sharp features a bit, and makes him look a little mysterious.  
  
And a lot sexy.  
  
There wasn't anyone in the club at this point. Closing time had   
come and gone a *long* time ago, and we were pretty much the only   
ones in the club. After closing time, they played whatever they   
wanted to play, and Nelly Furtado's album made for good   
background music as we sat around and played cards. My slutty   
silver tube top was an excellent argument for us to stay there   
and chill, let me tell you. The guy just stared down my top and   
told me that we could stay as long as we wanted. We even got free   
beer and a free pack of cigarettes for Spike.  
  
Which he was smoking and subsequently turning me on.  
  
Oh, don't think of me like that. It's not my fault. I couldn't   
help it. What else was I supposed to do when he was sitting there   
being so damned charming? Shuffling cards with those *really*   
fast hands, making idle conversation and making me laugh. It was   
the strangest feeling that I had ever felt in my life - the   
feeling of the line being blurred. I didn't know what the hell I   
was doing, but it was so easy to talk to him. So easy to sit   
there and play gin until 4am.  
  
And we kept on sharing secrets.  
  
"So you think that the reason all of the music on the radio sucks   
now is because of Bill Clinton?" I asked, feeling a little loopy   
and Spike-drunk.  
  
He nodded, taking a swig of the free Heineken that Lusty Bouncer   
Guy gave us (tm Spike). "Absolutely," Spike said, his cigarette   
burning between his fingers. "Your dumb American president gave   
all the money to these idiot teenaged girls and they ran right   
out and bought as much plastic pop music they could find. Now   
that's what we have to listen to. No more Foghat, no more Clash,   
no more Ramones. Just shiny happy people." A little snarl   
appeared on his mouth. "Makes me right sick to my stomach."  
  
I arched my eyebrow and made my move, placing a ten on the table   
and picking up an ace. "Either that or you had too much Heineken   
tonight," I said, and he gave me a wry smile, saying that he   
probably had. He smelled like alcohol. That added to his unique   
Spike-smell was sensory overkill. Booze, cigarettes, and sex.   
Spike smelled so awfully good.  
  
I think I started giving him the dopey smile then. The smile   
where I'm resting my hand in my chin and kind of mooning at him.   
It was a very bad thing, especially because he caught it.   
Naturally. I can't get away with anything when it comes to Spike.   
He saw the starry-eyed look, the little happy glow, and he just   
smiled right back. Oh, he knew that he had me.  
  
Then he played the two of hearts, and I picked it up, placing   
down a jack of spades. "Gin," I said softly, displaying my hand   
to him. He didn't bother to look at it, and I frowned. "Why don't   
you look at my cards? See for yourself?"  
  
Spike shook his head, taking my cards from me and stacking the   
deck. "Don't have you pegged for a cheater," he said, and I   
swallowed. Of course not. To him, I would never lie or cheat. I   
was a goddamned saint, and it offended me.  
  
"I could cheat," I said, pissed for being put on a pedestal. "I   
could lie. You think that you have me pegged, Spike, but you   
don't. You don't know all of me."  
  
I didn't mean it as a challenge. Honest. But I should have known   
that that was how Spike would take it. The same competitive drive   
that Willow has? Well, Spike has that *plus* a good dose of   
starry-eyed love.   
  
He looked down, his face crowned in cigarette smoke, the cards   
between his fingers as he shuffled them absently. "You wish that   
you could play the guitar," he murmured. "You try every now and   
then, but it frustrates you and you give up. You have a secret   
love for classical music. Your favorite season is summertime   
because of the thunderstorms. Late at night, when the bit's   
asleep, you pace around your mother's bedroom like a lost little   
lamb, and look out the window with the saddest damn look on your   
face. Like you're expecting someone to come and see you for what   
you are." A sad little smile touched his mouth. "And even though   
you'll never admit it, you like the smell of cigarettes."  
  
I did. I liked the smell of the burning tobacco clinging to his   
collar, though I tried to tell myself that it was gross and   
sleazy. It was warm and almost old, distinctive and heavy. It   
made me feel warm inside. I hated that he knew that about me,   
that he knew my secrets, that he knew the things that made me who   
I was. That he loved me for me was a crime, absolutely   
unforgiveable. Why should Spike be able to love me like this when   
Angel and Riley had failed?  
  
Why should my mortal enemy be the only one to ever love me for   
who I am?  
  
I gritted my teeth, stubbornly setting my jaw. I was ready to   
unleash absolute hell on him for daring to tell me these things.   
"Did the game change, Spike?" I asked softly. "I must have missed   
when we decided to tell each other secrets that weren't ours."  
  
God, Spike sucks for having such a great smile. I hated him for   
flashing those pearly whites at me like it was so damn cute that   
I decided to play rough with him. "Oh, go on ahead," he dared.   
"This should be entertaining."  
  
I leaned in close to him, so close that if he could breathe, I   
could have felt it. "You hate your crypt because it's empty," I   
murmured. "You still write poetry, and it still sucks. Your   
favorite season is summer because of the thunderstorms, and   
that's one of the reasons why you love me - because I get that.   
Sometimes, late at night, you sit underneath the oak tree in my   
front yard and smoke cigarette after cigarette, just to watch me,   
because you're lonely." My voice got suddenly cold. "And you   
never wanted to kill me."  
  
Oh, I knew Spike. I knew him so well that I could have written a   
best-selling novel revealing all of his secrets and gotten a   
butt-load of money from the Watcher's Council for writing it.   
  
And it made him smile. It made him light up like fireworks. It   
bothered me that he could think that it was so good that I knew   
who he was. "Oh, my," Spike sighed. "Knowing you... That's   
expected of me. I'm in love with you. But you know me... Know   
every little detail, every little nook and cranny..." He arched   
his eyebrow at me. "Now then, duchess, what's that say about   
you?"  
  
I think my jaw might have dropped, but I can't say. He pissed me   
off more than he's ever managed to piss me off with that one   
arrogant little statement. Maybe it was because he might have   
been right. What did it say about me that I knew him so well? So   
what if I did? I gritted my teeth and stiffened my body, glaring   
at him. "Did we just abandon the card game?" I asked him. "I   
mean, what is this? Grill Buffy for intimate details night?"  
  
"No," Spike said shortly, and I could tell that he was chomping   
at the bit to get to me. If I was pissed, then he had just gone   
nuclear. "This is 'Make Buffy Admit the Truth' night." His smile   
turned cruel. "And you know, you're just *so* damned good at   
lying."  
  
Okay. So maybe running to the bathroom wasn't the snappiest   
comeback, but I sort-of-really panicked. Running away is my   
answer to most uncomfortable situations anyway. Slayer survival   
skills and social graces don't always go hand-in-hand. But I just   
couldn't take it anymore, and dammit if Spike didn't hurt my   
feelings. I ran into the bathroom and threw cold water on my   
face, and tried to stop myself from feeling bad.  
  
"Just bad Spike words," I muttered to myself as I wiped my face   
off with a paper towel. "Bad, meaningless Spike words."  
  
But that was what made me run in the first place. Maybe there was   
a little truth in there. I threw the paper towel in the trashcan   
angrily, running my hands through my hair and trying to calm   
myself down. I was fine. Spike was wrong. I hadn't been lying all   
night, and I had never lied to him. I hated him. I wanted to kill   
him. These are normal thoughts to have when dealing with an   
aggravating little monster like Spike.  
  
Calm. Collected. Cool. And with great hair. Yes, I was back to   
normal Buffy status, ready to go back and make Spike weep with   
frustration that he couldn't ever have someone as to-die-for as   
me. Then I turned around in the mirror and froze.  
  
It was me. A skinny chick in a silver tube top and flushed skin,   
hair wet around the face, makeup nearly gone, and a little hurt   
expression on her mouth. It was me, naked and exposed, on the   
glass. And I was upset by it, because I saw what Spike saw. I saw   
the girl who couldn't lie.  
  
I did love thunderstorms in the summertime, especially right   
before they come, when you don't know how bad the storm will be   
and it feels like it might be a tornado. And I couldn't help but   
wander through my mother's bedroom at night, missing how good she   
smelled, and wish that someone would understand how I felt   
without her.  
  
And I remembered the taste of cigarettes on his mouth, underneath   
the blood and the bruises. I remembered how strangely hot his   
mouth was, and how badly my heart hurt when I kissed him. It   
pained me to kiss him so gingerly.  
  
I didn't know what to do, so I just closed the door on the   
bathroom and walked back out in the club.  
  
He was still sitting there at the table, the cards still between   
his hands, and I saw that he didn't expect me to come back. He   
looked relieved and surprised when I walked back to the table.   
"Thought I ditched you?" I said, and Spike shrugged.  
  
"Wouldn't be the first time," he said, and I knew that he was   
right. I'd walked out on him so many times. That should be a good   
sign, that I had managed to leave him before, but I thought about   
how many times I should have killed him but ran away instead. Not   
a good thing. Not a very good thing at all.  
  
I sighed, and tilted my head at him. "There's a first time for   
everything," I said softly, reminding him of what I said earlier,   
when we first started this whole mess. "I won, but we're playing   
things a little differently. I'm asking you a question, and you   
have to answer it with complete honesty. No bullshit."  
  
"No bullshit," Spike repeated, his eyes deadly serious and his   
voice rough.  
  
"What did Glory do to you?"  
  
I had seen the damage, but I didn't know its source. I needed to   
know what she had done to him, not only for my own use against   
her, but to know what he had been through for us. How much he had   
suffered.  
  
I think I offended him. His jaw clenched, and his eyes turned   
harsh, like I doubted his pain's authenticity. "Well, this black   
eye was from her slamming her right into me," he said, pointing   
to his purple eye with a chipped fingernail. "And all these   
little tiny cuts around the mouth? A glass. Right in my face.   
Hurt like a bitch. Almost made me cry."   
  
There was rage in his voice suddenly, and I wished that I could   
revoke the question. "Spike," I started, feeling terrible and   
mean, "just..."  
  
"No," Spike said coldly, his jaw resolute, and I could see that   
the memory of his ordeal was making his hands shake. He shrugged   
off his coat until he was in nothing but his black tee shirt, and   
I could see his arms. There were burns in his forearms, on the   
palm of his hand. "She found my cigarettes in my pocket, and   
decided to have herself a smoke break before chaining me from the   
ceiling. And I could go further and show you how she poked holes   
in my chest with her fingers and cut me open like a rotten apple,   
but I think that Lusty Bouncer Guy would get upset if I was   
sitting here without a stitch on, don't you?"  
  
I had nothing to say. I couldn't look away from his hands, with   
those dark red burnmarks, the kind that would probably scar. He   
had been scarred for me. I didn't know what to tell him, how to   
apologize for making him answer such a bad question. "I'm sorry,   
Spike," I muttered, feeling ashamed. "That was wrong of me to   
ask."  
  
But once Spike's temper is out of the bullpen, it doesn't stop   
until someone's lying in the ground, bleeding. "Oh, we're not   
quite done yet, duchess. We've still got the mouth. She dragged   
me by my lip, you know, and then slammed that glass in my mouth,   
along with a couple of really good punches. Let me tell you,   
she's got one hell of a right hook."  
  
It made me feel terrible. I was a beast. "Spike..."  
  
"Is that what you wanted to hear?" he asked, his voice suddenly   
quiet. "Wanted to see if I suffered enough to be good enough for   
you?"  
  
I was torn between two halves, one wanting to snipe back at him   
that he would never suffer enough for me, and the other wanting   
to tell him that he should not have had to suffer in the first   
place. The sight of his bruised and purple eye, then the sight of   
his mouth swollen, made me waver to the latter.  
  
Waveringly, I brought my hand over and cupped it over his,   
absolutely incapable of looking him straight in the eye. I didn't   
have anything to say that would make for a good apology, so I   
just held his hand briefly, and I felt him relax under my touch.   
His skin was cold, but not unappealingly so. It wasn't hard; it   
was soft, and slightly moist. He was nervous around me, and the   
thought surprised me. I didn't think that Spike could ever be   
nervous - he was too goddamn snide and arrogant to give a shit.  
  
But I could see the sudden insecurity, the chink in the bleach   
and leather armor. It was how his hand would occasionally jump   
under mine, like he wanted to touch me so badly but couldn't   
bring himself to actually do it. It was nice to see him   
vulnerable, considering that he's usually a jackass.  
  
"Forget it," Spike sighed, and I had to bite down a smile. Men   
can be so easy sometimes. They're all whores for love. "Doesn't   
matter. What's done is done and so on."  
  
I didn't move my hand. My fingers didn't want to move, even when   
my brain told me that it was probably an opportune time to move   
them. Actually, my brain was telling me that it was a bad idea   
for me to have put my hand there in the first place, but as Spike   
said, "what's done is done." I just wanted to let my hand linger   
there, wanted to feel my hot palms against his cool ones, like   
they somehow balanced each other out.  
  
That was when he decided that it was a good idea for him to move   
his other hand, and reached around to cup my wrist, surrounding   
my skin with his cool sweat. It made me shudder, made me think   
about my hot mouth against his bruised lips. I wanted to taste   
him again. I wanted to drown in his nicotine and blood.  
  
Blood...  
  
"Shit," I muttered as I pulled away from him, jerky with my   
actions, too afraid to be graceful. I had the shit scared out of   
me, terrified of myself and what I was doing. I stood up quickly,   
trying to gather the deck of cards in my hand and failing   
miserably. Cards scattered on the table, and I muttered an   
apology, abandoning the deck on the table. Mental note: buy   
Xander a new deck of cards. Or, considering what this game had   
led to, never buy Xander cards again.  
  
"Don't," Spike said hoarsely, and I looked down at him with   
horror, realizing that he wanted me. It was sexy. It was awful.  
  
"I have to go home," I said, my voice sharp and alarmed. "I have   
to get Dawn to school in the morning, and I have to go talk to   
some of my professors, and I have things to do..." I suddenly   
felt bad for ditching him, but what else could I do? This wasn't   
his fault, but being around him wasn't a good idea on my part.  
  
Before he could say anything else, I spun around and walked   
towards the door, my cheeks flaming and my vision a little   
blurred from panic and alcohol. Oh, Lord, it was a terrible,   
terrible idea to get plastered and hang around with Spike.  
  
"Definitely not a bright night for you, Buff," I muttered,   
walking out the exit door and into the back alley where I'd   
learned a good history lesson from my favorite mortal enemy not   
too long ago. The first night where he tried to kiss me. The   
first time I should have figured out that something was wrong.  
  
"Buffy!"  
  
Goddammit, couldn't I escape him for once? Here he was, already   
limping his way out the door, looking as pathetic and heartbroken   
as a Sid Vicious wannabe could look. "I never got to ask you a   
question," Spike demanded, and I clenched my jaw at him, tipping   
my chin and glaring at him.  
  
"Did you forget the rules, Spike?" I asked harshly. "You didn't   
win the hand. I did."  
  
Spike narrowed his eyes at me, getting so close so that if he   
breathed, I would be able to feel it. "I thought we threw out the   
cards a long time ago," he said lowly. "I'm asking my goddamn   
question."  
  
Glaring at him coldly, I dared him to ask it. Come on, Spike. Ask   
your stupid little question. "Oh, please," I sneered. "I'm   
really, really in need of a good laugh."  
  
Tightly, like it was killing him to even speak to me, Spike   
smiled. "All right then," he said. "Why didn't you ever kill me?"  
  
It floored me, and I didn't know what to say. I wanted to run.   
Wanted to flee as far away from Spike and his nasty, complicated   
question. I wanted to stake him. I still wanted to kiss him. But   
all that I could do was look at him, mouth flapping like a dying   
fish, without anything to say.  
  
Then we both looked up, startled by what we saw above us.  
  
Great.  
  
A thunderstorm.  
  
*****  
  
(end part three)  
  
*****  



	4. Chapter Four

TITLE: "Wagering History (4/4)"  
BY: Annie Sewell-Jennings  
E-MAIL: auralissa@aol.com  
SUMMARY: A game of spades provides high stakes and reveals   
everything. Buffy/Spike  
RATING: PG-13  
SPOILERS: Post-"Intervention"  
DISTRIBUTION: My site,   
http://geocities.com/anniesjennings/index.html, and wherever else   
it is wanted, provided that permission is requested prior to   
archival  
DISCLAIMER: The characters of Buffy, Willow, Xander and Spike are   
the property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy Productions. I don't   
own them; I just make them have lots of sex. But I haven't heard   
any complaints yet, so... ;-)  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This piece is dedicated to the players of our own   
never-ending game of Spades: Barbara and Megan. I will always   
bring that bitch home. g Also, thanks to my beta-reading pal,   
Heather. :)  
  
  
*****  
  
I've never been a religious girl. My father used to try to get me   
to go to church with him before he decided to go all deadbeat   
dad, but we lived with my mother, the recovering hippie, so my   
sister and I never got a real taste of religion. I've never   
really missed it, but on this night, I did come to a conclusion   
in matters of faith:  
  
Every single god in the world was in on a massive spiritual   
conspiracy to make me suffer.  
  
Honestly, it was the only viable reason I could think of for my   
current situation. I was stuck in a little backroom of the Bronze   
intended for rowdy drunks and teenagers on bad trips in the   
middle of a vicious thunderstorm with Spike, and we weren't going   
anywhere for a while.  
  
The room smelled like dead fish. Dead fish, spilled booze, wasted   
cigarettes and the lovely smell of vomit. The only attempt at   
decor in the room was a bunch of old posters and advertisements   
plastered to the walls, and a fluorescent light flickered wearily   
from above, shorting out every now and then from the lightning   
storm raging outside.  
  
Of course, due to the "God vs. Buffy" war that I explained   
earlier, there was only one itty bitty cot pushed back in the   
corner of this dirty little room, and that was what Spike and I   
had to share for the duration of the night.  
  
Neither one of us wanted to look at the cot. Spike hovered in the   
corner, adding another cigarette to the stench, and I crossed my   
arms over my chest to hide the skimpiness of my silver tube top   
from him. I whistled, he smoked, I hummed along to the songs, he   
glared at me to tell me that my singing was not fit for sound in   
general.  
  
"This sucks," I said aloud grouchily, pacing back and forth.   
"This really, really sucks." To punctuate how much the situation   
sucked, I kicked a broken bottle of beer across the floor, and   
its stale contents spilled over the cement floor. It wasn't until   
afterwards that I realized what I had done - now neither one of   
us could sleep on the beer-soaked floor. It was bed or bust, and   
I had just fucked myself over royally.  
  
"Could be worse," Spike said off-handedly. "Could be raining."  
  
Great. I was locked into a dank little room containing one tiny   
cot and a vampire obsessed with me and Mel Brooks movies.  
  
Briefly, I thought about starting to keep score again:  
  
God: 2  
Buffy: 0  
Spike: Probably a million points.  
  
He was loving it. I could tell that this was exactly what he had   
always hoped for - being locked in a little room with Buffy   
Summers and one stinky, uncomfortable-looking cot to share for   
the duration of a night. Yup, Spike was in a hovel twisted into   
some sort of sick heaven for him, and I was beginning to feel a   
little panicky at the prospect of sharing a bed with him.  
  
Sighing, I sat down on the dreaded bed and put my head in my   
hands. I wished that I was anywhere in the world other than in   
this room. There was a broken clock on the wall, teasing me with   
the possibility of even knowing what time it was, and I shook my   
head. "I've got to get home soon," I muttered. "Dawn needs me."  
  
"Oh, I'm sure that the munchkin will be fine," Spike said.   
"She'll brush her teeth and say her prayers and all that domestic   
bullshit, and she'll wake up without even knowing that you were   
gone all night."  
  
The thought distressed me suddenly. Would Dawn even miss me?   
Would she even look for her sorry excuse for a mother, even try   
to find out where her sister had gone?   
  
I bit my lip and worried about her, and Spike suddenly frowned,   
wincing when he realized that, as per usual, he had said the   
wrong thing. "Hey, I don't mean that," he said quickly. "All I'm   
saying is that she'll be fine without you for just one night.   
Giles will hold the old fort down."  
  
Sharply, I looked up at him and gave a pointed look to his   
battered state. "That would be a lot more reassuring without the   
bruises and the limp," I said, and Spike had the decency to let   
that go. "Everything's dangerous right now, Spike. I need to be   
home. What if Glory takes this opportunity..." I couldn't even   
bear to finish. All I could do was think about how young Dawn   
was, how much I loved her, and I couldn't speak.  
  
He touched me then. Literally. His fingers ran through my hair,   
carefully sweeping it away from my shoulders. "She won't," he   
murmured. "Took care of that already, remember? Got the pain to   
prove it."  
  
Oh, we all had the pain to prove it. Like now, the pain of not   
knowing whether to push Spike away or pull him close. My brain   
told me a thousand reasons why I should stake him now like I had   
never been able to before, but my skin was coming up with some   
excellent opposing arguments. Like how nice his cool fingers felt   
in the humidity. Or how beautiful his eyes could be when he was   
like this, like the blue became more noticeable. And damn, that   
mouth, so ripe and swollen, so deliciously enticing...  
  
Shit.  
  
Quickly, I jerked away from him, standing up and crossing the   
other side of the room, never glancing back at him. "Stupid   
broken clock," I spat at the useless clock on the wall.  
  
I heard him throw his cigarette to the ground, and I refused to   
look at him. I knew that he was sulking around, pissed off that I   
had rejected him, and I could hear him limp back and forth across   
the jail cell. Seething, I set my jaw and turned around, back   
against the wall, arms crossed, in complete bitch mode.  
  
"You know, pacing in small quarters is not exactly charming," I   
said snidely, and Spike glared at me with a malice that I   
recognized. Oh, good. It was time to fight. The only part of my   
twisted relationship with Spike that was *any* fun whatsoever.   
The man really does have a talent for verbal warfare.  
  
Thunder clapped outside; the storm was really beginning to rage.   
I didn't appreciate Mother Nature's hand in this catastrophe.   
"Oh, but everything I does pisses you off, now doesn't it?" Spike   
shot back at me, and it was not very convincing or threatening   
with him dragging his wounded leg behind him.   
  
I glared back at him, giving him the patented "whatever" eye roll   
that only a true California girl can do properly, and it just   
pissed him off even more. "You're just torturing me for fun,   
Summers," he said. "Making me think that everything's all right   
with a game of cards, making me throw out everything I have to   
offer but offering nothing back but a little sympathy and a right   
to the chin."  
  
"What have you thrown out on the table tonight, Spike?" I   
challenged, and Spike laughed tiredly, in exasperation.  
  
"Oh, I threw it all out," Spike sighed. "History, passion, and a   
couple of aces. But really, what have you given me? I just want   
answers. I just want you to answer a question that I can't figure   
out."  
  
There was lightning; I could see it through the frosted glass of   
the window in the small chamber. Rain pelted against the glass,   
and I wished for a tornado, just like I always did, but this was   
for a good purpose - to kill me and get me out of this situation.   
But I knew that the storm wouldn't be so kind, so I had to answer   
his damned question. The question that I didn't even know how to   
answer.  
  
"Fine," I said lowly, and then I started to sweat. Damned   
humidity. Damned vampire. "I never killed you because... I don't   
really know, sometimes. Maybe the world was more interesting with   
you in it. Maybe all the fights, all the arguments, all the nose-  
thumbing is kind of fun. Maybe I like it sometimes."  
  
My mouth was running away with itself again, and I felt like a   
cartoon when I clapped my hand over my mouth at the end. Nice   
save there, chosen one.  
  
Now Spike was staring at me, like he honestly hadn't expected me   
to give a really, brutally honest answer to his question. "You   
get it too, don't you," he said, his voice low, seductive and   
almost lilting. Like hypnosis through honey. "The fights are the   
best part. The banter, the threats, the fire... You aggravate me   
more than any other person on the planet."  
  
He aggravated me, too. No one could crawl under my skin and   
rattle my nerves like Spike. It was beyond reason to get so   
pissed off at him sometimes, but I couldn't help it. He pressed   
my buttons in all the wrong places, and somehow, I ended up   
pressing all of his in all the right.  
  
Suddenly, an idea occurred to me, and I tilted my head towards   
the side. Not challenging anymore, merely... Curious. "You said   
that was a question that you never figured out," I said quietly.   
Everything had grown softer suddenly, like the electricity had   
settled into nothing more than a burning ember between us. "Well,   
I have one too. Why do you love me?"  
  
Spike was taken aback by the question briefly, and then he   
stepped forward, his bruises dark shadows underneath his eyes.   
"You know, took me a long time to know why myself," he said,   
running his hand through his tousled hair. "Couldn't figure it   
out for the life of me. All I knew was that I woke up in the   
middle of the night and suddenly..." He didn't say it; he just   
let his voice trail off, and then he stepped even closer, so   
close that I was trapped between him and the dirty wall.  
  
His fingertips skimmed over my forearm, and I couldn't help it. I   
shivered, feeling like his touch was lightning, and I was shocked   
through and through. I simmered underneath Spike's touch, and I   
looked up at him, captured in his gaze. "Fucked me up good, you   
did," he murmured. "Not your fault though. Not mine, either. It's   
just the way that it is, duchess. I loved you from the beginning,   
from the first time I saw you and Xander dancing right in this   
very place. The curve of your shoulder..."   
  
His hand reached up to touch it, and his rough fingertips   
caressed my skin in a way that made my heartbeat race and my   
breath quicken. "The fall of your hair..." Now his fingers   
stroked my temple, running through my hair and making my mouth   
dry and my body feel swollen and sore with arousal. "It all did   
something to me. But it's not just lust; I could have dealt with   
lust. It's something more. Something about you..."  
  
"What?" I whispered hoarsely, my voice caught by the storm inside   
of me.  
  
The back of his hand whispered down my cheek, and I turned my   
face to it, wanting his touch, wanting him to continue with these   
feather-light caresses. Gently, I reached up to cup his forearm,   
to keep him positioned there, to fasten him to me. "Everything   
about you," he sighed, and I could feel the tension from him,   
knowing that he wanted this as badly as I did. Just to touch for   
a while. Just to explore and feel this light. This... Free. "It's   
everything about you, Buffy. You're everything that I lost when I   
was made, everything that I thought I didn't want, but..."  
  
Suddenly, I understood. We had never wanted each other, but in   
this room, without our careful guards and the rules we were   
supposed to live by, we had found each other. He had broken   
everything he lived by, and had been bruised and beaten by it. I   
didn't know that vampires could be noble. Didn't know that he   
could be heroic. And I wanted that piece of him, that new,   
strange glimmer in him that was so alluring and... Good.  
  
Slowly, almost shyly, I reached my other hand up to touch him,   
and I wrapped my hand around his neck, cupping his head in my   
hands. His hair was soft under my touch. I didn't know that he   
could be soft like this. Didn't know that he could be this lush.   
I was swimming, almost drowning, and buried underneath the stench   
of the room was *his* smell. The smell of cigarettes and sex.  
  
The smell that I loved.  
  
So close together, so entwined that we were nearly inseparable,   
Spike leaned forward, his voice hushed and rough. "Answer me one   
more question," he murmured into the curve of my ear, his lips   
caressing my earlobe in a manner that made me hiss out a moan.   
"Tell me why you kissed me yesterday."  
  
Cheek to cheek now, I pressed my face against the side of his,   
never wanting to let go of his skin, and I brushed my own lips   
against his ear when I responded, without the lies, without the   
falsehoods. "Because of the bruises," I whispered, terrified of   
my honesty and spellbound by his. "Because of the split lip, and   
the glass in your cheek, and the cuts on your chest." The chest   
that my hand was now touching, never hearing the beat of his   
heart, and never really needing to, either. I knew it was there.   
I knew it was mine. "Because of them, you were beautiful."  
  
Now I touched him, touched his bruises. I felt the swollen heat   
of fever underneath his cheek, and even as he winced, he wanted   
me to touch him. Spike pressed his cheek against my hand, and   
then I touched his mouth, feeling the silk of his lips underneath   
my hand, remembering how he felt underneath my kiss...  
  
And then I was feeling it, as I leaned my head up to his and   
kissed him again.  
  
Power, this time. No fleeting little breath, no soft slide. This   
was all passion, all teeth and tongue, as we met frantically at   
the mouth and kissed until I was breathless. Hunger and greed   
seized me, and I dug my hands into his shoulders, pulling him   
close to me while we kissed feverishily. His mouth tasted like   
everything good and everything bad, confusing and nice all at   
once.  
  
Losing it. I was completely losing it. This would be the   
definition of losing it, kissing Spike like this, but I decided   
right then and there that I didn't care. So what if I was losing   
it? I must have been losing it for years, since I knew in that   
moment, lost in his kiss, that I had wanted this from the   
beginning. I had wanted him in a primal sense, and after tonight,   
after yesterday, I was beginning to want him in other senses,   
too.  
  
I wanted his heart.  
  
Our hands were everywhere, scouring across each other's bodies,   
looking for the places that we wanted to nuzzle and caress, the   
places we wanted to bite and lick. I found my first spot in the   
hollow of his jaw, nipping at where his heart should beat with my   
blunt teeth. His tongue looped through the silver hoop in my   
earlobe, licking at metal and skin. Fingernails scratched against   
the skin of my back, and I hissed, arching my hips against him   
and throwing my head against the wall. I was burning from the   
inside out, on fire with want, and the thunderstorm raged   
outside.  
  
I stepped away from him then, just one foot back, and looked at   
him. I could see the arousal in him, from the way his erection   
pressed against his black jeans, to the way that his eyes burned   
like immolation. He wanted it, and I wanted to give it to him.   
Let him know that no fake girl would ever provide him with as   
much pleasure as I possibly could. Tell him that programming and   
wires were nothing compared to me.  
  
Programming. Wires. It was just... Too weird. I couldn't help but   
think of what he might have done with it, the things he could   
have programmed, and it, well, freaked me out. I was *not* going   
to have sex with someone who had made a robot me and had sex with   
it only forty-eight hours ago. It was just not the brightest of   
ideas... At least not now.  
  
I sighed, looking away from him briefly. "Look, I hope you don't   
think I'm that easy," I said, turning my face back to him and   
arching my eyebrow. "I've had bad experiences with first-night   
relationships. They always end up leaving in the morning."  
  
Spike flashed me an ironic smile. "Well, pet, leaving at sunrise   
wasn't exactly my plan," he said glibly, and I rolled my eyes,   
leaving a smile on my face when I did it.  
  
"Smartass," I said, and it was hard not to smile at him. "But you   
did get the picture, right? This is all still very weird and   
very, very wrong, especially after the most recent wacky robot   
hyjinx." It was a pointed remark, and believe me, he got it. He   
even had the decency to look a little shame-faced, conceding that   
yes, building a fake Buffy and having some sort of warped sex   
with it was not going to get me into bed.  
  
At least not tonight.  
  
"Right," Spike said, grimacing when he shifted his weight onto   
his wounded leg. "Probably not a good idea anyway, what with all   
the bruises and the pain."   
  
"Yeah," I said, feigning innocence. "Probably not a good idea at   
all."  
  
"Well, we still have that one bed and a couple of hours before   
sunrise," Spike said, gesturing to the cot underneath the frosted   
window. "How 'bout I promise you that I won't get fresh if you   
don't?"  
  
I barked out a laugh at that one and then ran my hands through my   
hair, still trying to overcome the buzz from beer and Spike. "I   
can't make any promises," I said a little shakily. I got hot all   
over again every time I glanced in his direction. Oh, those hands   
and how they flipped so gracefully through the deck when he   
shuffled... Or that mouth, tasting like cigarettes...  
  
Nope. No promises whatsoever.  
  
Awkwardly, Spike looked away when he shed his coat, and gingerly   
took off his shirt, wincing at his sore body. I was almost   
floored by how badly he had been tortured. There were all sorts   
of circular wounds on his chest, scabbed over and still tender-  
looking, and long slashes that only could have come from a   
skilled hand wielding a sharp blade.   
  
"Jesus," I muttered, walking over to him when he stumbled briefly   
and nearly fell over. Quickly, I put my arm around him and helped   
him to the bed, cradling his head in my hand before laying him   
down. "Oh, man, Spike, I'm sorry..."  
  
"Not your fault," he said tiredly. "She just got a little carried   
away, I suppose."  
  
Worrying at my lip with my teeth, I sat down next to him on the   
bed and felt a little bad that I hadn't been there the night   
before. "How badly does it hurt?" I asked, and Spike shrugged his   
shoulders, looking down at the scrawls across his chest.  
  
"Bad," he admitted. "Could be worse, though."  
  
I smiled. "Could be raining," I finished softly, and reached down   
to touch one of the stray locks of white-blond hair falling over   
his brow. "You know, I think I like your hair better this way.   
Say good-bye to the hair gel - it's now officially gone."  
  
"Bye," Spike sighed wearily, and I could tell that he was   
exhausted. It was nearly sunrise, and he was fading out, beaten   
and ready to go to sleep. Frankly, after a night like tonight, I   
was worn out, too.   
  
Gently, I laid myself down next to him, pulling the scratchy-  
looking blanket over our bodies and turning myself towards him.   
Nothing wrong with a little spooning, right? Nothing strange or   
weird there, snuggling up with the guy I've been halfheartedly   
trying to kill for the past three years, right? I sighed to   
myself. Oh, it was wrong, all right. It was wrong and right all   
at the same time.  
  
I tucked my head underneath his chin, resting my cheek on his   
shoulder, pressing my palm against his cool, bruised chest. "I   
don't really know what to think of you right now, Spike," I   
murmured. "I really don't."  
  
Strange to feel him chuckle underneath my cheek. Strange but   
good. "Neither do I, duchess," he said, and I smiled.  
  
"Duchess," I said. "I could get used to that term of endearment.   
Much better than 'Slayer'. How weird would that sound if--"   
Better not to finish that sentence. I've said too much for one   
night, anyway.  
  
Again, that nice little chuckle. He had a nice laugh, and I'd   
never noticed it before now. He sounded happy when he laughed,   
and I'd never heard that from one of my lovers. Not even Riley,   
and never Angel. Only Spike could ever be happy with me - sad but   
exhilarating all at once.  
  
Outside, the rain was beginning to slow, and the thunder was   
nothing more than an occasional rumble or tired growl. No more   
lightning, just the steady white noise of rain. It was soothing,   
nice, lying on a cot underneath a scratchy blanket with my cheek   
against Spike's chest and his hand on my back.  
  
"And the award for strangest night in history goes to," I   
murmured against his skin, and I felt him laugh again while   
touching my hair.  
  
"So, pet, where do we go from here?" he asked, and I shrugged my   
shoulders.  
  
"I don't know," I said. "I think I need some time to figure all   
of this out. And some time to get over the freak-out factor. But   
until then, who knows? Maybe another game of spades next week." I   
grinned broadly. "After all, we did beat the shit out of Willow   
and Xander."  
  
Now it was Spike's turn to gloat, and he was, naturally, an   
expert. "Yeah," he said slowly, with great satisfaction. "We   
certainly did. They'll think twice before they play with us   
again."  
  
"Oh, definitely," I agreed, and then I lifted my head up so that   
I could see his face. It was beautiful, even under the bruises,   
or maybe it was because of the bruises. His good deeds written   
across the structure of his face, like an addition to his angular   
architecture, made my heart hurt in a way that I had never   
experienced before. Confusing, painful, but undoubtedly good all   
at once.  
  
"Spike," I murmured, looking at his heavy-lidded eyes. He had   
such long eyelashes. "Do you want to know what secret I'm going   
to tell?" He nodded, and I smiled. "I'm telling it to you, and   
the secret is that I could fall in love with you."  
  
It was the truth. The way that he sacrificed himself, the painful   
way that he was changing, the brilliant flash of his eyes and the   
tilt of his chin... I could fall in love with him if I knew him   
better. If I gave myself time and allowed myself to do so.  
  
And I could definitely fall in love with the way that he kissed   
me just then, with that silky pout of a mouth that should never   
have been given to any human being. "Want to know what I'm going   
to tell?" he murmured back, and I nodded. "I'm going to tell   
Giles that Xander shagged Anya in his bathroom."  
  
I threw my head back and laughed, flicking his forehead with my   
finger. "Punk," I snorted, and Spike grinned, fingering a lock of   
my hair.  
  
"Duchess."  
  
So what if I didn't know what was going to happen tomorrow? So   
what if I had absolutely no way to predict how fate or destiny or   
even the weather was going to unfold? Strangely, none of these   
things mattered in this dank and extremely disgusting little   
room, curled up in a creaky cot with a vampire that I was maybe   
falling in love with. All that mattered was that I was a duchess   
and he was a punk, and there was still a good hour before sunrise   
that I could spend in his arms. And maybe a lifetime after that.   
Or at least until he started acting like a jackass again.  
  
Just as I was about to drift off into never-never land, Spike   
touched my temple with his fingertip and spoke. "So, tomorrow   
night, hearts?"  
  
And all I could do was groan and say, "Deal me in."  
  
*****  
  
(end)  
  
*****  
  
Well, that's the end of my strange little spades-oriented fic. I   
hope that everyone got a little levity and fun from it, and I had   
a blast writing it. Thanks again to Heather for beta-reading, to   
Barbara and Megan for playing in real-life, and to the readers   
who will hopefully send me a little feedback at   
auralissa@aol.com.  
  
*****  
  



End file.
